Johnlock: a chapter, a song
by PhoenixQuill9
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. The idea is that you read a chapter while listening to a certain song, it's Johnlock, it's fluffy C: The songs I'll use are: High Hopes by Pink Floyd, Wish You Were Here, also by Pink Floyd, Show Must Go On by Queen, The Scientist by Coldplay, Creep by Radiohead, Lovesong by The Cure, and Heroes by David Bowie. I own none of these characters, they're the BBC's!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N The song for this is "High Hopes" by Pink Floyd. I suggest you start reading after the bells stop chiming. Pleease read slowly, because I realize that the song itself is longer than the chapter takes to read. Enjoy! C:**

John Watson's best friend was dead. And he had seen it happen. Now he was in front of his tombstone watching his coffin being lowered into the earth. His coffin, Sherlock Holmes' coffin. John still couldn't believe it. He'd never talk to Sherlock again, he'd never argue with him over who'd get the milk, never be able to admire his amazing deductions again. John hated to think that Sherlock would be buried there, motionless, his beautiful features left to rot. He remembered the first time he'd met that amazing, ridiculous madman. He also remembered the countless times they'd saved each other. And he refused to believe that he was a fake. No matter what the papers, or Kitty Riley, or even Sherlock himself had said, John would never for a minute doubt his late friend.

He'd seen so many people die during his time as an army doctor, and some had been his friends, but no death had affected him as deeply as this one. Maybe it was because he had fallen in... In love... With Sherlock Holmes, of all people. And now he was dead. And he'd never be with him. John choked back a sob as each of them (Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft and him) threw a fistful of soil on top of the coffin. He wanted to say something, tell them all that Sherlock wasn't a fake, tell them he believed in the detective. The man had brought light and excitement to his life, and now he was gone, and he'd never come back. But the words wouldn't come, and he stayed quiet, staring at the black marble tombstone.

John had talked to his psychologist about it, told her he didn't _truly_ think Sherlock was dead, and he believed in him. She had patted his arm and told him he was just in denial because of the shock. She had tried to put it kindly, comfortingly, but he had just felt stupid. He then told her of his feelings for the man, and she hadn't said anything for a minute. When she did, it had been to prescribe pills to help him with his depression. She had told him he'd have to get used to Sherlock's death. He remembered it well, he had dismissively nodded and walked out, angry that she had stated the worry that was occupying and haunting his every thought, the worry that Sherlock would never come back to him.

He realised everyone was looking at him. Oh. They wanted him to speak. "Sorry, can... Can you repeat that, please?" He said to Mycroft. "John, as Sherlock's best friend and one of the few people that truly knew him, would you like to share something with us?" Mycroft looked tired, and worried. "I... Yes, of course," John said hurriedly. He inhaled sharply. "Sherlock Holmes was... A great man, and my best friend. I have him to thank for, uh, bringing me out of the depression that followed after I returned from Afghanistan. He might not have shown as much caring as the rest of us, but it was there, it was always there, and I am honoured to have met him, to have lived and worked with him. Um, there are many things that Sherlock Holmes was, a fake isn't one of them. As Mycroft said, I knew him, properly, and I know that he was a true wonder. I... I really miss him, and there are things I didn't say to him that I really should've said, but... I'd just like to say, to you, that he was a brilliant man and... And I loved him." He finished, feeling a knot in his throat. Mrs. Hudson started sobbing and hugged him. Lestrade rubbed his hand across his face, discreetly wiping a tear from his right eye. Molly looked at him sadly, a little surprised at his confession. Even Mycroft had lost his usual attitude. But now the service had ended. John bowed his head and walked back to the cab with Mrs. Hudson. His limp was coming back.

He paid no attention to what Mrs. Hudson said the whole way home, and when they climbed out of the cab he mumbled something about having work and ran up the stairs. He sat on the sofa he and Sherlock usually shared when watching telly. _**Used**__ to share_, John thought. Alone in the confinement of his flat, he let all his feelings out. He cried for about an hour, and the presence of Sherlock around the flat didn't help. His skull, his laptop, his messy experiments... It was all there, as if Sherlock had just popped out to solve a case. It was heartbreaking for the doctor, but he just couldn't leave. He had nowhere to go, and he felt leaving would be giving up, accepting that his companion was all they had called him.

The press bothered him through week, but Mycroft had put them all in place. Occasionally there would be crappy articles on tabloids, but no one really cared anymore, and John went back to working at a clinic. Nobody seemed to recognise the "confirmed bachelor" from a few months back, but he was grateful for it. He visited Sherlock's grave every weekend, sometimes with Mrs. Hudson, usually alone. He didn't talk much to anyone but his patients and co-workers. But even in the midst of his pain and mourning, he somehow still had high hopes.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N This chapter's song is Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd. *Posh lady voice* For an improved experience, start reading either when the guitar starts or when the intro ends. Enjoy!**

After hearing John's speech, Sherlock watched him walk away. His friend's limp was coming back. Was that how badly he needed him? Of course he'd heard John's "confession", and though it had touched him, he had already known from the way John acted around him. He wished he could tell the man that he wasn't dead, and that he loved him too. He felt more at calm knowing what John really thought, but what was the use, if John couldn't know he was loved too? Sherlock sighed and strode off the other way. His temporary house (not home, 221b was home, where he had John, and Mrs. Hudson) was past a park, so Sherlock sat on one of the benches and watched all the happy, stupid, ordinary people. A woman glared at him and pulled her children closer. Ah, yes, he had been neglecting his appearance. Looking closely at her, he could see she was divorced, had trust issues, and a considerable amount of money. He rolled his eyes. She reminded him of one of John's silly little flings. But... It didn't matter who John dated now. He just wished it wasn't so hard to care. It was definitely not an advantage, but it was worth all the trouble when he knew his three friends were safe.

Dying had changed him, in a way. It had made him more sensitive to what people felt. He knew when he had harmed people. When he was being mean. And every time that happened, he could hear John's voice in his head, saying "Sherlock, apologise," or "No, Sherlock, _don't_ do that," or sometimes, even "Brilliant! That's bloody brilliant," when he deduced something. He wanted to hear John's voice in person, but it was far too risky for him. Moriarty may have been dead, but his associates weren't and they were dangerous.

A little girl ran past him, closely followed by her chuckling father. Would John make a good father? Sherlock knew he himself wouldn't, but he'd make the effort for John. He'd do anything for John. The detective found himself thinking about the man. Every little detail about his friend, from the way that he would look at Sherlock when he thought he wouldn't notice, to the way he tied his shoes. He closed his eyes and entered his mind palace, searching for happy memories with the man he so cared for. He remembered when John had met Irene without him, and how The Woman had said they were a couple. He had smiled then, hidden behind the pipes, because even a woman that felt attracted by him had acknowledged his relationship with John. Even if the latter had denied it at the time. He kept searching, and found the memory from a few weeks ago, when they'd been handcuffed together. Sherlock's heart had beat fast that day, and not just because of the adrenaline. The thought of holding John's hand had made him feel butterflies in his stomach, and he felt like a silly teenage girl. But now he knew that if he didn't stop Moriarty's people, he'd never see his beloved doctor, and John would eventually move on and find someone else. Thinking about that made him sad, so he kept searching.

He returned to the real world eventually and got up off the bench, stretching. He carried on his way, and hailed a cab. Now he remembered the first day he and John had gone to solve a case, and how the doctor had killed a man to save him, despite having met him only hours before. Everywhere the cab turned, he thought he saw John, in a café, entering a shop, walking a dog, even holding a little kid's hand. Sherlock missed him, terribly. He missed all of them, really, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Molly... He even missed Mycroft a little. But without doubt, he missed John the most. And he'd told himself it was for the best, but it was hard to do good when you were feeling so bad.

Would John ever forgive him? His sacrifice almost made it seem worthwhile if it were the case. Maybe they could even... Date... He'd never had a boyfriend (or a girlfriend, for that matter) that had lasted more than a week. Finally, the cab pulled up outside the horrendous concrete house where he was living. He absentmindedly handed the cabbie his pay, and got out.  
It was drizzling. On a day like this he and John would be watching television. Of course, he could still watch it, but it wasn't the same without John to explain the programs. He fumbled for his keys and made his way in, tears in his eyes. Sherlock plonked down on the sofa. After 30 seconds of just staring into space, he lay down. He fell asleep in seconds and dreamed he was back at 221b. With his doctor. _His_ doctor.

_Oh, John, how I wish, how I wish you were here._ He thought, tears stinging his eyes.

**A/N Please review!**


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